Look eye! Always look eye!

Apparently, this post is number 805, which means that this blog celebrated post number 800 without ceremony. Fair enough, I am never one to blow my own trumpet (and lord haven't I tried).

I will admit that it is quite an achievement (the blog, that is, although the ability to blow one's own trumpet surpasses it by some margin). When I started, I only had one son! Now I have two! That's double the amount of children! Amazing.

Here is the Ezmeister showcasing his excellent grasping skills. Whether it is a hoop earring, mum's knitting, a fly (with chopsticks), or an exposed nipple, you can be guaranteed that Ez will get it in one.

Just the other day, Ez and I were down the pub shootin' pool, bustin' each other's balls and whatever it is that red blooded, hot headed studs do when they're on the piss. The little bloke had just put a two dollar coin into the jukebox, selecting the Ting Tings' hit That's Not My Name, when in walks this chubby dude with a ponytail, decked out in a really, really poorly chosen outfit.

So this guy was talkin' crap, and somehow managed to get the music switched from the Ting Tings to Kid Rock's anaemic, MoR rehash mash up of all the worst bits of Warren Zevon and Lynard Skynard's mega hits. To add insult to injury, his gyrating and grinding attempt at dancing (and at impressing the busty barmaid), resulted in an intentional bump on Ez right as he was set to clean up a big pot, spilling his pint in the process.

As a man of great honour, Ez shot him a glare and demanded "satisfaction", and this fat dude starts waving his arms around like he's Ralph Macchio painting a pagoda or something. Quick as a flash (actually, he was quicker), Ez has somehow gripped both of this guy's ears, pulled them down, and tied them to the leather tassels on his faux-suede boots.

As we leave (to avoid any more of a scene), I managed to overhear one of the patrons at the bar expound in awe, "that dude with the little basketball head has only gone and whip Steven Seagal's arse!"

Just another day in the hood.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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